


domesticity and kissing and other such things

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [44]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Mild Angst, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Did a bunch of little prompt fills, thought I'd do them in a chapter format since they're so short
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [44]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 6
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by @hunninutqueerio on Tumblr:
> 
> **how about “kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s?”**

The way Sherlock kisses is surprising, though it takes John a while to figure out why. It’s not because he does it with an intensity and focus that takes John’s breath away - that is how Sherlock does everything. Sherlock has never been the type of man to do anything by halves, and kissing is no different.

It’s not the way his fingers wander over John’s face, shoulders, arms, and back. Cataloguing, concentrating, caressing. No, that is just as part and parcel of who Sherlock is, as much as the expected intensity.

The surprising part is how Sherlock kisses with desperation. Tangles his fingers in John’s hair, pulls his face upward, curving his body into John’s in a sleek comma shape. He has a habit of pulling John’s bottom lip into his mouth, tugging with his teeth, that desperate edge lending a sharp flavour to the kiss.

Sherlock kisses like it’s his last day on Earth. Like John could be ripped from his arms at any second, and John holds fast like his life depends on it.


	2. magnetism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompted by @hunninutqueerio on tumblr
> 
> **how about “when they lean forward a fraction as if to kiss the other person, then realize they shouldn’t and pull back to stop themselves” for the prompt list**

Magnetism. Forces of attraction. Complex, natural phenomena. The laws of physics, and the only possible explanation for why Sherlock finds himself drawn to John Watson. Pulled in like a planet caught on the event horizon of a black hole. John is a force of nature. Inevitable as a hurricane.

Standing under the stars, with NSY slapping the cuffs on two men with masked faces behind them, Sherlock feels John at his side the way a feverish man feels heat beneath his skin. Consuming and delirious.

John turns to him, small smile on his worn face. “All wrapped up here, yeah?” Sherlock tries not to look at his mouth. Almost succeeds. Doesn’t really mind failing.

Tilting his head, Sherlock looks at the man standing by his side. “Yes,” he says, and the little smile on John’s lips grows to a grin.

“Brilliant.” The word breathes out, and Sherlock is enthralled. Drawn in, inexorable. He leans forward, just a fraction, his goal to taste John’s mouth, to breathe his air. Reconsiders, realizes this isn’t the time, the place, and pulls back to stop himself. To keep from giving in to that pull. John doesn’t notice. He is looking up at the sky, eyes trained on distant stars. Watching him, studying his face in profile, Sherlock’s mouth is dry.

John is magnetic, and Sherlock feels his draw, spinning with the weight of entire galaxies above them.


	3. grocery list

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompted by @heyblinken on tumblr
> 
> **“Here’s the grocery list” From the Domestic Prompts list**

Living with Sherlock is never boring. Sometimes, it is downright chaotic, and, others, it is a miasma of shocking confusion. More often, it is just frustrating. A lesson in patience for John.

Today is clearly the last type. Fresh from the shower and cradling tea in his hands, John is assaulted by a crinkled piece of paper. Sherlock dangles it under his nose until he takes it, cocking an eyebrow.

“Here’s the grocery list,” Sherlock announces, like it is an ordinary thing, him making a grocery list. Staring, John tries to imagine Sherlock looking through the fridge and cupboards, taking stock, noting down the needed supplies in a neat, straight line. He can’t quite picture it.

“Ah. Okay.” Tearing his eyes from Sherlock’s expectant face, John studies the list. His brows rise, then drop, and he frowns at the detective. “Seriously, Sherlock?”

Mouth quirked, Sherlock frowns back at him. “What?”

John rubs a hand over his face. “Where do you expect me to get sodium phosphate?” Sherlock shoots him a blank look, and John reads on. “Hydrochloric acid. A baseball bat? Three-inch-long dandelion leaves?” Exasperated, John turns his perturbed look to Sherlock. “In what way is this a grocery list?”

Sherlock looks affronted. “There’s milk on it!” He taps a finger to the end of the list. “Milk is a grocery item.” His tone indicates that John is missing the obvious. That John is a moron. John glares at him.

John picks up milk, and some kale. He leaves the rest for Sherlock to scrabble for, completely lost as to where he would even attain the remaining items. Living with Sherlock is never boring.


	4. shrunken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompted by @woeshh on tumbl
> 
> **Prompt 14: a shrunken sweater**

John stared at the shrivelled wool in his hands. The oatmeal jumper was shrunken, reduced to a shadow of its former glory. Holding it up against his chest, John theorized that it would barely cover the top of his rib cage. Lips pursing together, mouth going tight and tense at the edges, his hands clenched around the damp wool. Drawing in a deep breath, he let out a bellow, “Sherlock!”

Footsteps rattled up the stairs, prompt and steady on the steps. Seconds after John’s shout, Sherlock stood in the doorway of the bedroom. His eyes flicked over the room, taking in the military neatness before landing on the laundry basket on the bed, and the man in front of it, bare-chested, standing with a now too-small oatmeal-coloured jumper in his hands.

There was a faint hint of nervous concern in his voice when he said, “John?”

Turning, moving so slowly that the muscles and tendons in his neck creaked, John faced him. His wide eyes blinked once, twice, then narrowed. “Sherlock,” he said, taking great pains to control his furious tone, “did you switch my laundry over to hot water mid-cycle?”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted away, and he cleared his throat. “Why would you ask such a thing, John?”

Fists clenching, John shot him a look. “Oh? _Why,_ you ask? You ask me why? Well, Sherlock - _this_ is why!” He pulled the jumper over his head, ruffling shower-damp hair. It came midway down to his chest, barely covering his nipples. Looking up at Sherlock, John saw his lips twitch. He glowered at the detective and dared him to laugh. Silently challenged him.

Sherlock laughed, and John tried to stay angry. He really, truly did. But the bedroom air was cold, and it drew goosebumps over his skin, and he gave in. A low, helpless giggle escaped his lips, and John heard Sherlock echo the sound. He laughed until his sides hurt, and straightened to jab a finger at him. “Don’t mess with my laundry again, all right?”

A smug smile on his full lips, Sherlock tilted his head in amused agreement. “Very well, John.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompted by @hunninutqueerio on tumblr:
> 
> **concept: sherlock getting stoned with mrs. hudson and john walking in on them**

John was exhausted. Dragging up the sidewalk, relief sinking into his bones at the sight of the familiar black door of 221B. Stepping through, climbing the stairs, he paused. Hand on the railing, a frown passing over his face, John took a deep, long inhale. A heady, skunky scent filled his lungs, strong enough to make his head swim for a second. In a fragment of thought, he wondered if Sherlock was cooking up some strange new experiment. But the smell was too obvious, too distinct, and he knew exactly what it was. 

Entering the sitting room, he was a little taken aback by Mrs. Hudson’s presence. She and Sherlock sat across from one another, Mrs. Hudson, in John’s chair, Sherlock in his own. The detective was slumped against the leather, long legs crossed at the knee, elbows loose on the armrests. He looked like a melted version of himself, face slack and mouth tilting in a slow, easy smile at the sight of John entering the room.

“Ah, John’s home. _Hii-iii,_ John!” The way Sherlock said his name made it sound closer to ‘Jawn’ than John, and he drew the ‘hi’ out in a sing-song tone.

“Um. Yes, it’s me. Hello.” John’s reply was awkward, confused. The smell he’d caught in the stairway was much stronger here. Smoke blew out in a little cloud from his own chair, and Mrs. Hudson tilted around the armrest to grin at him. There was a rolled cigarette in her hand, and the smell told John it was definitely not filled with tobacco. 

“Oh, Doctor Watson!” Mrs. Hudson’s grin, inexplicably, widened. “It is you! The good doctor!” For a reason completely lost on John, she dissolved into giggles. Sherlock stared at her, eyes wide as saucers, before joining in. The sound was deep and rich, and utterly mad to John.

“How high are you?” John demanded. His question only sent them into harder laughter. To his shock, Sherlock curled into himself, spasmed, and snorted so hard he nearly slipped off the chair. “What are you smoking!?”

Mrs. Hudson turned reproving—if bloodshot—eyes on him. “They’re herbal soothers, young man! What are you, the police?” 

Straightening in his seat, Sherlock rearranged his ridiculous limbs into something like a pretzel. “Don’t be insulting, Hudders—John is much smarter than the police!” 

They were both lost in another fit of giggles. Still standing in the doorway, John stared at them both. “Lovely,” he muttered. “Just lovely. So good to come home from work just to take care of more people.” 

Sherlock waved, hand flopping back and forth on a loose wrist. “Do stop being such a stick in the mud, John. Learn to have some fun.” And, with that, he managed to stretch far enough to actually slip from his chair to the floor in a fluid motion that made him look almost boneless. The action threw Mrs. Hudson into another surge of laughter, Sherlock joining.

Dropping a hand over his forehead, John closed his eyes. “Bloody hell.”


	6. head over heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> y’all can blame @heyblinken for this. there are construction workers on her roof, making lots of noise and giving her the fear someone might fall through because of the sounds. like the high-functioning sociopath that I am, her concern inspired this “imagine your OTP” AU idea of construction workers working on 221B, and one of them (John Watson, of course) stepping into a soft spot and falling into Sherlock’s kitchen

Something crashed through his ceiling, ripping Sherlock’s attention away from trying to drown out the sound of hammers and nail guns with Vivaldi. Whirling, he watched a man roll off the kitchen table, onto the floor. 

“Um,” said Sherlock, prompting the man to raise his head.

“Whoops. Sorry.” 

Sherlock frowned, taking in the scattered beakers and vials, previously set on the table, now all over the kitchen. “You fell on my experiment.”

“Oh. Apologies.” The man sat up. “My bad.” Rubbing his head, he looked around, frowning at the debris. “Was it important?”

Sighing, Sherlock set the violin aside. “They’re _all_ important.”

The man looked thoughtful. His eyes flickered over Sherlock, taking in his lean form and mussed curls. “I’ll make it up to you?” It emerged as a question and Sherlock’s brows rose.

“And how would you do that?”

To his surprise, the man grinned. “Take you for dinner?”

“Are you flirting with me?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

Grin widening, the man struggled to his feet, dusting grit and plaster off his construction gear. “I don’t know. Is it working? Because if it’s working, then yes. Yes, I am.”

Sherlock’s lip curled. “It’s not.” To his credit, the man looked properly chagrined before the grin returned. 

“Shall I go up and fall through again instead?” he asked, pointing at the hole in the roof. “‘Cos I’ll do it, don’t think I won’t.” 

Despite himself, Sherlock smirked. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”


End file.
